Becca Rowan is a writer and the author of Life in General, a collection of essays about mid-life as experienced by an American woman in the 21st century. Becca loves creating connections by sharing stories on her popular blog.
I spent ever day last week surrounded by Youth. As I do every summer, I worked at a musical theater camp where there were 30 young people between the ages of 10 and 18, as well as a few “older” young people (in their early thirties). This is one of my favorite musical activities, but at the start of the week I was a little concerned about my ability to keep up with all the energy they were sure to exude.
However, I discovered something wonderful about energy: it’s contagious.
But today is one of those ubiquitous cultural days when fathers are the main topic of conversation. I’ve found myself thinking of my father quite often lately. Even though he and my mother had been apart for 20 years before he died in 2013, in my mind they are still inextricably linked. I think it has to be that way to some degree: after all, it was their partnership that created me and nurtured me to adulthood, that set me on my own particular course of life. They were my Parents.
Butterflies are everywhere at the hospice care center where my mother died. They adorn the walls in hanging sculpture, and are tucked away in planters and wind chimes throughout the gardens surrounding the building. According to hospice literature, butterflies symbolize the transformation from one life to the next.
Do you know the feeling you get when you’ve been sick with the flu, achy and shivering with fever, and then, miraculously, the fever “breaks,” and your chills turn to a warm, sweaty flush?
You open your eyes and see clearly for the first time in days. You can take a deep breath without collapsing into a barrage of coughing. You crave cinnamon toast or hot chicken soup. You want a hot shower and some clean clothes.
That’s how I feel today. After the past week of suffering (“I am not mourning, I am suffering,” wrote French philosopher Roland Barthe about his mother’s death), today I am peaceful, even a little bit hopeful that life may one day resume it’s luster. I’m getting familiar with the drill, this wild ride of grief. Today is a good day.
Perhaps it was the catharsis of writing yesterday’s post.
Maybe it was planting flowers last night, the physical exertion of digging holes and placing the tiny plants into the ground, settling them into the soil and cupping it firmly around them.
It could simply be the healing warmth of summer sun, or the vastness of blue sky that today looks promising instead of punishing.
Whatever the reason, I accept today's gift of equilibrium with gratitude.
Sometimes I hesitate to write about Grief, about the way my life is these days. I don’t want to constantly put my sadness into a world that already has plenty of sadness. Still, Grief is the vein that runs through everything I am and do right now. There is no getting around it, there is only getting through it. This is what takes all my energy.
